


ways to say goodnight

by histrionic



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Pillow Talk, in all universes madara is gay and in love with hashirama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/histrionic/pseuds/histrionic
Summary: Come and rest your bones with me.(or: Hashirama and Madara take the time to breathe together after yet another battle.)





	ways to say goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be part of a longer thing but. it's self indulgent lesbian hashimada that's really it.

Madara felt pain lick through her body like fire through dry kindling, every part of her howling like the winds of a storm. Even as she felt herself fracture it felt like peace, to be pulled apart and dissolved in the current surrounding her, lifting her...

she was looking down on the battlefield as if from very far above…she was made of the light of thousands of stars, no longer flesh and blood but pure force given form. she lifted one arm and felt the susanoo move as a perfect extension of herself –or was it the other way around? she could reshape the very ground they stood on, feel it quake beneath her as she reduced age-old mountains to new rubble with a swing of her sword. shivering power sang through her blood as the yasaka magatama formed between her hands.

whole armies flattened before her.

it was over; hashirama’s massive tree constructs were sinking back into the earth.

Ah. 

Hashirama. 

For a brief moment, Madara resisted letting go of her Susanoo. Why settle for less, when she was powerful now? Untouchable, destruction incarnate. This form could touch the roof of the sky itself, brush against the stars if she so wished; all of heaven was available for the taking.

And yet. Hashirama had broken through Susanoo’s armor before, dragged Madara kicking and screaming back to the cool earth. Heaven’s net was wide but empty; how often had she looked up at the sky and cursed the alignment of the stars, the heavens, whatever forces that watched from a distance but did nothing? 

She could not forget her roots, could not forget Hashirama. 

With a sigh, the Susanoo folded itself back beneath her ribs, coiling back into the well of burning anger which still rose to her throat white-hot too much, too often. Madara felt shaky and weak with the loss, part chakra exhaustion and part disgust with her fragile human body and the baggage it carried with it. 

But if she was vulnerable, she was not alone, not when she was collapsing into the fold of Hashirama’s arms.

“Don’t get my blood on the floor,” she mutters, closing her eyes before Hashirama can reply.

Things settle. 

Madara prefers to bathe alone, although she can feel Hashirama’s presence in the bedroom beyond the door. She closes her heavy eyes and listens to Hashirama describe the weather to the plants on their windowsill: it is sunny today, with a friendly breeze that comes to visit like a neighbor with extra squash to share. The sky is crisp enough to bite into and very blue.

When Madara was younger, she would float face-down (the way dead people did) in the shallow part of the river. Where it was nothing but her and the muted, dark world beneath her screwed-shut eyelids, the curious little fish who approached her without fear and bit her. Not quite an escape. Just elsewhere. A temporary trip. Somewhere slower, with less sharp edges. Like the Land of Rice Fields, maybe. She'd stay there until the chill of the river sunk into her bones and ruined the illusion of stillness, and slink back into camp blue-lipped and dry-eyed once more. 

(Of course, it was Hashirama who found her back then too, who pulled her out of the water and refused to talk to her for fifteen minutes as she scrubbed away tears.) 

They both have their rituals. 

Hashirama gets her hands dirty. She pretends to weed and complains about the slugs and snails they inevitably wind up sharing most of their meals with. She does nothing to remove them. If Hashirama feels at all the singing of her blood in a fight she gives no indication when she puts away her kunai, her scrolls and armor. Hardly looking at them. Standing in the garden, unable –or, more accurately, unwilling- to weed the vegetable plots, feeding daikon and dandelion alike with her chakra until the whole garden grows lush and wild. 

Madara cleans. She guards their house diligently against dust but leaves the cobwebs. Makes ordered chaos of their mutual clutter. Scratches at her skin until it bleeds, sometimes. Less often now.

Her hair floats around her, weightless in the water as she sinks further into the tub big enough for two people. It fans out into the empty space around her, obscuring most of her scrubbed-pink skin from view. When she goes to pick the blood and dirt from under her nails she notices her hands have wrinkled like salted plums; the source of the blood isn’t clear until she notices the neat little arc of crescent moons cut into her palms. Even with what little light filters through the small, heavily curtained window on the east side of their house, Madara can tell the water is already pink. Her entire body feels like an ache, like woolen cloth soaked in water.

She thinks that she might spend forever fighting. Sometimes she thinks she already has.

“Madara?” Hashirama knocks on the door, even though it swings open slightly under the weight of her hand. She stays behind it. “Are you alright?”

Her head tips back until she can hear the bones in her neck popping, until her skull touches the rim of the bathtub. “Yes,” she says. Her voice echoes oddly. “I will be,” she amends. 

All their towels are puddled in the kitchen sink, saving the new floors Madara put in from getting bloodied after only a week. Madara dries her hair with her hands as best as she can before dripping her way into the bedroom, glad to see the curtains drawn over the window even if it faces the forest and not the street. This is the first time Hashirama will see her fully naked, she realizes. Despite their recent intimacy. Stray droplets trace their way down her body. Hashirama's eyes are on her, dark and bright and warm. They step closer. Who first, Madara couldn't tell. Goose bumps shiver into existence down Madara’s arms as Hashirama leans in close enough to press their foreheads together. Breathing together. Warm hands smooth away the chill still clinging to Madara’s skin. 

And Hashirama, who has so much faith in Madara when she doesn’t deserve it, can never seem to trust herself enough; she rests her hands over Madara’s shoulder blades, up against the press of bones which reminded her so much of quiescent wings sleeping underneath human skin. As if Madara might one day fly away and vanish. She would reassure Hashirama with words, but Madara has never put much of her faith in them, or in her own ability to give voice to everything she wants to. She’ll show her guts instead, and make love to Hashirama with her vulnerabilities bared. Share them for Hashirama’s hopes, her joy, her secret sorrows. 

She adores Hashirama with everything she has; Hashirama, passionate and prone to talking with her hands, who can hold her down firmly enough to keep her from floating away but holds flower stems so gently that they never bruise. Who heals scraped knees without thinking twice. Who trades strength for strength every time she lets Madara hold her safe in the circle of her arms, heart sick and weary and still willing to love. Who made the first move and reached for Madara’s hand, again and again and again.

The first time they spent the night in the same bed, Madara froze before the sight of the simple mattress laid out on the floor, Hashirama already half-undressed and sitting on top of the covers. Hashirama had taken her hand and guided her to sit, blowing out the few candles still throwing warm light on Hashirama’s smiling face. It was a cloudy night; the stars were hidden and the new-month moon had yet to show its pale face. 

In the dark, Madara felt herself relax, bleeding out tension she hadn’t realized existed until exhaustion filled all of the empty spaces left behind. Hashirama rolled over and cupped Madara’s cheek, stroking her thumb over a small scar secret to all senses except touch. 

“Now I can see you better,” she’d said, and leaned forward to press a clumsy kiss against the corner of Madara’s mouth. Madara tilted her head and guided Hashirama back to meet her parted lips, her hands trailing from Hashirama's shoulders to explore the soft curve of her stomach, her hips, her thighs. Peace had been good for them all, but Madara could still appreciate the strength in Hashirama’s legs as they tangled with Madara’s and in her core as Hashirama leaned up and into the wet of their kiss. Hashirama’s hands played with the hem of the undershirt Madara was still wearing and tugged her in closer, closer, closer.

 

it was too sweet to be called surrender.

 

Now it is Madara who tucks her mouth close to the soft skin of Hashirama’s throat, Madara who murmurs a quiet “let’s go to bed.” The light is still sunset-red through their pale pink curtains, but Hashirama obliges her anyways.

They settle in bed together; Hashirama curls a hand loosely around the shape of (her) undershirt Madara put on earlier and gladly makes room for one of Madara’s legs in between the sprawl of her own. By night they make concessions, sleeping around the shape of each other’s night terrors. They find each other after nightmares, although these too have grown less frequent over time. But for now Madara can hold Hashirama close.

Like this, Hashirama can see little pitted scars on Madara’s cheeks and forehead, signs of the adolescence they both nearly missed for the battlefield. The scars aren’t beautiful, but they are very, very human –and for all her attempts to assert otherwise, Madara is human, warm and considerate and curled loosely around the shape of Hashirama in their bed together.

“You’re uneasy,” Hashirama says from somewhere around Madara’s collarbone. She shifts around until her head is at eye level with Madara’s. “What are you thinking?”

Madara closes her eyes. “About the fighting, mostly. There are still enough unaffiliated shinobi to pose a threat to Konoha as they did today. And I don’t trust Suna. Any of the other villages, really.” The childish, mostly ignored part of her finds it all monstrously unfair, that they and the other villagers have fulfilled one dream and found countless new nightmares around the corner. “Perhaps we were too hasty.” It tastes like bitter gall in her mouth.

Hashirama picks up on what Madara leaves unsaid. “Perhaps. But it takes decades for a tree to grow to maturity, hmm? The forests here are all older than our great-grandparents.”

“Not yours.”

“Not mine,” Hashirama concedes. The hint of a smile lurks somewhere in her voice. “It’s good and all to be patient, but…”

“There’s nothing wrong with speeding things up with a little chakra,” Madara finishes for her. 

“So I suppose we’ll just have to all do our very best then,” Hashirama concludes. She gives Madara’s hand a gentle squeeze. Even if Madara doesn’t put much stock in words, she trusts that Hashirama loves Konoha and their plans for peace more than she loves even Madara. 

They kiss each other tonight and renew the same vow they have used since childhood.

Tomorrow.

It is the best they have to offer to each other. And it is –

it shall be-

enough.


End file.
